


Downtown

by yeaka



Category: The Backseatsman
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The driver gets everything he wanted.





	Downtown

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: [You’re welcome.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_x0QSnLijPE)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Backseatsman or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The car pulls to a slow stop one mile from the border—one mile into _his dream_ : California, sunny and beautiful and everything he ever hoped for. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his body tense, because it’s hard to believe he’s really made it. It’s happening. He left the postcard behind, the day he made the most important choice of his life: the Backseatsman over a fare. But that _Hi From California_ postcard has never left his heat, and his pulse races twice as fast now that he’s achieved it.

His hand is shaking as it moves to the door handle. He pops the lock and pushes it open, swings the sleek metal back to let in the fresh air and the sun, glorious _sun_. It’s everywhere, touching every surface. The road gleams ahead of him. There’s one petrifying second where the driver doesn’t think he can take it—it’s too much. But then he finds himself pulled forward by an invisible string, because _California’s calling._

The driver gets out of the car. He takes one trembling step forward. He can see it all—the beach, the girls, the bears. The breeze ruffles through his hair, bidding him to take off his hat. He does and holds it against his chest in reverence. The gulls are calling, and they paint a beautiful sound, mixed in with the twinkling laughter of bikini-clad women and the occasional roar of a bear. 

After a long, deep breath of it, the driver turns. He can feel the smile plastered across his face, dimpling his cheeks. But something’s missing. He asks the Backseatsman, “Aren’t you coming?”

The Backseatsman smiles sadly. It touches his eyes, but in the sort of way that a teary farewell might. His scarf is wrapped much too tight around his neck for the warm California weather. The Backseatsman gestures with his lollipop and mutters, “There’s no seat for me there.”

The driver’s eyes widen. He turns back to the gorgeous horizon, scanning it for something good enough—a spare cushion, a tent, anything that could mimic the protective cocoon of a back seat, but nothing comes close. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been too bogged down in fantasies to consider the reality. In that moment, the driver knows he has to make a choice. 

He swallows. The Backseatsman breathes, “Go on, sonny. Follow your dreams.”

The driver’s chest aches. Not, he realizes, for California, but for the friendship he’d have to leave behind. California is magnificent, but it can’t fumble a yoyo. It can’t wear a headband. It won’t listen to his stories and tell him of the fifties. 

There is no choice to make. Resolute, the driver slips back into the car. It’s bizarrely easy to pull the door shut behind him. He puts the car in gear. The Backseatsman asks, awestruck, “What’re you doing?”

“Come on,” the driver says, “We’re going to fifty-six and Lennox.”


End file.
